Presence of Mind
by eloquentlyinsane
Summary: '"Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail—displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him—proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams." Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.' One-shot.


**_'"Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail—displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him—proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams." Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.' One-shot._**

_I didn't think I would have this out so soon...I'm procrastinating on schoolwork. It's a sickness, this procrastination game. _

_But so anyway, this paragraph (above) in HPGOF that got me thinking about Peter and how exactly he managed to revive Voldemort and get inside his mind a bit._

_And so I was reading that bit and I was thinking about how we never really get to know Peter Pettigrew and I thought this might be a nice excercise in character development. (Yeesh, and I thought Dumbledore was hard to write; at least he had a lot of lines.)_

_I really tried to channel JK Rowling's style of writing, so let me know what you think about that, plz :)_

_Xoxo —ei_

**_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._**

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_PRESENCE OF MIND_

It was nearly midnight at the Vozë Pubb. The night was quiet. An owl swooped above the establishment, hooting softly, as it delivered its burden before settling upon the eaves upon the roof.

The was a flash of white light though no rain could be seen anywhere and, quite suddenly, a crumpled figure appeared at the edge of the forest on the narrow moonlit lane that led to the pub.

He lay quite still for a moment and appeared as if dead.

Then, with surprising agility, he jumped to his feet and peered suspiciously around.

He had a peculiar way of carrying himself: he stood rather hunched over, balanced on his haunches, his legs were bent in a bizarre-half crouch, and his hands hung motionless at his chest, curled into hammy half-fists one of which held long thin wand. With each breath he took, nose twitched violently like a rodent's.

He was an extremely short man with grubby skin, small, watery eyes, and a pointed nose, all of which gave him a particularly mousey look. His hair, a rather dirty brown, was thin and unkempt, and he had the distinctly unhealthy look of someone who has lost a lot of weight in short period of time.

Apparently satisfied, he started up the walk, stowing his wand in the pocket of his cloak.

The bar at the pub comprised one small, very dirty, and dingy room. The bay windows were so encrusted with filth that any glimpse of the outside was impossible. The room was filled with rough wooden tables that had nothing save for candles upon their surfaces and sat on what appeared to be a dirty, poor-cobbled stone floor.

The man slid on a stool at the end of the bar.

The bartender paused in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had never been washed. "Vot do you vant?"

"Firewhiskey," said the man shortly. His voice squeaked as he spoke, as though he was not used to the art.

The barman glared at him for a moment and then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in doing something very important, disappeared into a bar behind the bar, returning with a small quantity of firewishkey in a small dingy glass.

"Seven sickles," the barman said tersely.

The man did not respond, instead morosely sipping his drink in silence.

The barkeep eyed him for a moment more, his eyes sliding over his unkempt appearance, the mass of unruly hair, to the hand that held the glass of firewhiskey**_—_**he blinked twice to make sure he was seeing right: the index finger was missing. Then, having decided he was not a flight risk, he turned away.

Peter Pettigrew had absolutely no money on his person, but at the moment, he was occupied by bigger problems.

More had happened to him in the last few months than in the last twelve years: he had been discovered squatting as a pet rat for the Weasley family by his former schoolmates, forced to reveal himself, almost apprehended, but forced to flee.

He had been suffering down in the sewers of London with the other common rats for weeks until he had come upon a rumor. Whispers from the other sewer dwellers of a place, deep in an Albanian forest, that was avoided, where small animals like themselves had met their deaths by a dark shadow that possessed them…

The last known location of the Dark Lord—where Quirrell had been before he had been possessed. As it was, he had nowhere else to turn. It was no good to seek another wizarding family when the Potter boy and Dumbledore knew his secret.

But if his master were alive…he would be handsomely rewarded for his faithful return, and Peter could scarcely contain his excitement at the thought—no more hiding, no more scrounging for scraps like an animal. He would finally be free.

And yet, he sat here in the filthy, grimy, dinghy pub at the edge of the forest where his master was rumored to be and he could not bring himself to continue on.

As much as he had enjoyed his power under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's regime, he had been in constant fear during it as well. It was so easy to fall out of His favor and so difficult to know how he would react to anything.

Why, when Severus had asked him to spare Lily Potter's life—Severus, the Dark Lord's most trusted servant, his most adoring follower, aside from that mad Bellatrix Lestrange—He had simply laughed. And James and Lily had been dead by next morning.

Not that anyone would ever know, but Peter had felt badly that James had died. James Potter had looked out for him at Hogwarts, taken him under his wing when Peter had been nothing more than a runty schoolboy.

It was a shame, really.

But once James had started dating Lily Evans in seventh year, Peter had been left behind. Lupin had been busy with his Head Boy duties, while Sirius was spending more time in detention than out of it to be worried about what Peter Pettigrew, boy _ordinare,_ was up to.

He had really had no choice but to buddy up with some new friends. Friends, that would take care of him. Friends, that introduced him to a new master who made promises of a new world order.

And yet, he remained rooted to his seat.

He had cast his cards with the wrong side last time and see where it had landed him: doomed to suffer as a rat. To do so again would be idiocy. Besides, he was in a strange new land where no one knew him. What was stopping him from starting life anew?

The door to the pub swung open and out of habit, Peter Pettigrew looked to see who had entered and promptly choked on his firewhiskey.

There was a thin, sallow-faced witch at the door of the pub. She had curly brown hair and wore a rather drab travelling cloak. She looked round the room and pursed her lips in a disapproving way as she surveyed its occupants.

It was Bertha Jorkins.

She had been at Hogwarts during Peter's time, though three years above his year. She had not been well liked. She was known to be a colossal bother, known for been nosey, rather gossipy and rather a bit of an idiot. If brains were gold, she would have been poorer than Lupin.

Sirius had caught her following Lupin around once, nosing in his "furry little problem" as they called it amongst themselves, and promptly stuffed her head in a regurgitating toilet.

He had been in detention for a week for that but she learned to leave Lupin and the rest of them alone.

She couldn't see him here! But he couldn't apparate (most pubs had anti-apparition charms on them to prevent people from running out on the bill) and she was standing there, right by the door.

He turned away to the side and pondered his options. If he made a run for it, the barman would surely give chase—then again, it was only a few sickles…

Would anyone notice if he turned into a rat in the middle of a pub? It wasn't crowded, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. The warlock closest to him was humming a few bars of a Celestina Warbeck songs in a rather inebriated manner.

If that blasted barman would just turn around—

"Peter? _PETER PETTIGREW?_"

He jumped.

Without him noticing, Bertha Jorkins had come up behind him and she was now eyeing him in utter disbelief.

"Er…"

"You're Peter Pettigrew!" She said matter-of-factly, jabbing him in the chest with a finger with the nail bitten down to the quick. "Remember me? _BERTHA JORKINS!_ FROM 'OGWARTS!"

The barman glared at her.

"I think you've got the wrong wizard, marm." Peter mumbled.

She scoffed. "I ruddy well do _not! _You're Peter Pettigrew! I never forget a face! Especially not yours! It was plastered all over the papers the night after Voldemort killed the Potters and fled. Oh my god!" She gasped dramatically.

Peter flinched.

This is was really the end now.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! Everyone thinks you're dead, but you're not! I'm got to tell _everyone_!"

That, he didn't doubt.

She would tell everyone, if he didn't do something right quick.

"But you can't!" He protested. "It's classified, Bertha!"

"What do you mean, 'classified'?" She asked, positively agog.

"I mean—" Peter drew back. "I can't tell you! It's top secret ministry business."

"_I _work for the ministry, Peter. Now spill it!"

As what, magical maintenance staff?" He scoffed contemptuously.

She scowled. "Actually, I work in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, right under the head of Ludo Bagman, former beater for the Wimbourne Wasps!" She crowed, triumphantly.

"_You_ work for the ministry?"

"_I do!_" She snapped. "In fact, I run a lot of top secret things myself. They're bringing back the Twiwizard Cup this year to Hogwarts and _I'm_ on point-witch for Ludo!"

"They're bringing back—what?" Peter sputtered, completely nonplussed. "The _Triwizard _Cup? But they haven't played that in years."

"But they're bringing it back, to Hogwarts, with Dumstrang and the Beauxbatons as well. Everyone's been going nuts trying to set it up and they've got all the lower level staff keeping mum with some stupid jinx. But _I'm_ allowed to talk about it!"

"But people die in that mad tournament," Peter said slowly.

"Oh, we're taking special precautions this time. All the challenges will be very safe. Barty Crouch is running the whole thing and you know he's a nutter."

Peter Pantswetter—that's what they had called him in school, before James and Sirius had stuck up for him.

"Now, spill the secret, Peter _Pantswetter_, or I'm telling everyone!"

But a brilliant idea had occurred to Peter. All this time, he had worried that the Dark Lord would spite him for returning empty-handed. But now, here was Bertha, so chock-full of information and unbelievably gullible, and a senior official at the Ministry of Magic no less in a department that, as it seemed, would be interfering at Hogwarts next year, where Harry Potter was.

She jabbed him again, jarring him from his thoughts.

"Alright, Bertha, I'll tell you about it, but let's, er, take a stroll, alright? I don't want to be overheard. This is confidential ministry business after all. But first…do you have a few sickles to spare, by any chance?"

It was almost chagrinnigly simple from there, Peter had to admit.

Overpowering Bertha was hardly overwhelming. She was astonishingly stupid.

He bound her body and dragged her through the forest behind him. Finding Him was harder, but eventually fruitful. His part of the forest was conspicuously deserted.

His Lord had been overjoyed to see him.

It was a shock for Peter, however. To see him reduced to a shadow, lesser than the meanest ghost—a remnant of his once glorious power.

His first order was to find his Lord a body.

Peter brought back the barman. He thought it was would be difficult to slip back into his old life, but it had been as easy as slipping on a glove.

"You have done well, Wormtail."

_Wormtail_, he hadn't heard that name is a long while. It sent shivers down his spine, brought back memories of the old days, of the Marauderers, of his Lord's rise to power.

He missed this life, his true calling. How sweet the taste of power was.

All the while Bertha Jorkins watched silently, discarded for the time being, until Wormtail recounted his meeting with her in the pub.

His Lord was intrigued by the account, having come to the same conclusion.

"I must know everything she knows."

"I'll tell you _anything_! _Anything_ you want to know!" She sobbed. "_Please_, let me go! I won't breathe a word, I swear!"

Wormtail rolled his eyes.

"Lies!" The Dark Lord hissed at her. "Everybody lies, girl! Your desperation does me no good. I must know _everything_."

"_Please_! I beg of you, I won't say anything. I'll tell you everything_! Please, please, please…" _ She sobbed uncontrollably.

"She's got loads of rubbish in her. It'll take hours."

"We have time," He told Peter. "All is well now that I have you, Wormtail. And we have all the time in the world."

Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.

_"Crucio!"_

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**_Note: _****_Vozë Pubb is (apparently) Albanian for Hogshead Pub_**

**_Accio reviews!_**


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